


This Love Like a Hole (Swallows My Soul)

by alisvolatpropiis



Series: That's Why He Lets Him In [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, ChestHair!Derek, Come Marking, From Sex to Love, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Omega Derek, POV Stiles, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Shotgunning, Stiles Stilinski Is Bad At Feelings, Stiles Stilinski is a Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1952046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles watches him for a long beat before responding, taking in the sharp lines of his bearded jaw and the strong tendons of his neck that lead down to the soft, dark chest hair peeking out of his dark green v-neck. He’s captivating, so blindingly gorgeous it hurts to look at him. “Well, congratu-fuckin-lations to Lydia and Jackson,” he finally says, remembering how that chest hair feels against his tongue.</p><p>He thinks he sees something like a smile flash across Derek’s face, so he leans closer, heart racing even faster. His crossed arms brush against the soft leather of Derek’s jacket and he clenches his fists tighter, itching to grab at it and pull him in. “Did you want something,” he asks, voice whiskey-dark, watching how Derek’s eyes fall to his mouth as he speaks.</p><p>“Yeah,” Derek whispers throatily, barely loud enough for him to hear. “Yeah, Stiles, I want something.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Love Like a Hole (Swallows My Soul)

**Author's Note:**

> A follow up to [That's Why He Lets Him In](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1901061), with a happy-ish ending. It's probably not necessary to read part one first, but some stuff might make more sense if you do.
> 
> This part is from Stiles' POV, the first time I've switched POVs within the same AU, which was kinda challenging! I also wanted to keep the angst and characterization from the first part while still letting their relationship develop into something more, which also proved a challenge. I hope it works!
> 
> Title from X Ambassador's [Litost](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tGr_cyThHkc&feature=kp), which was my theme song when writing this fic. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Stiles drives aimlessly, windows rolled down to let in the cool night air, music loud, a beat up mixed tape he stole from Dean wheezing in the Jeep’s ancient tape deck. He’s circled the entire city twice now, skirting around the edges of the Preserve and the Hale property, not wanting to go near the burned out husk of that house.

The last time he had, more than a year ago, he had killed an alpha. Not one of the alphas that killed his parents, but the only good alpha’s a dead alpha, so he didn’t hesitate. One less monster out there to destroy a kid’s life. His favorite machete – one of John’s that Sam had given him on his eighteenth birthday – had sliced through the sonofabitch like a hot knife through butter, a nauseating mix of adrenaline, rage, and despair churning in his gut.

He hadn’t known until a couple of hours before he finally found the asshole that Peter wasn’t one of the alphas that killed his mom and dad fifteen years ago, only learning his name after figuring out that he was hiding out in the ruins of the Hale house. Stiles vaguely remembers the Hale family from his early life in Beacon Hills, before Deucalion and his alphas destroyed his life when he was ten years old. They had been a prominent family in town, ancestors of the original founders of Beacon Hills, which had even been called Hale Hills at one point in its history.

And, apparently, the Hales are fucking werewolves. Or _were_ , at least. There’s only one Hale left, thanks to Stiles.

He drives and drives, turning at random, not really even paying attention to where he’s going, restless, anxious. It’s been more a year since he decided to take a break from life on the road with his stepbrothers, coming back to his hometown to try and figure out what it’s like to be a person and not just a hunter.

He’s not very good at it. 

He still hunts. The mystical energy that drew the Hales here hundreds of years ago still thrives, calling all manner of nasty creature like, well, like a fucking beacon. He’s also been keeping a close eye on the surrounding area, sometimes leaving town for a few days here and there to take care of a poltergeist in Tahoe, a stryga in Ashland, a pair of changelings in Ukiah. He takes stupid risks, not so much out of a need to kill or protect anyone, but because he may be walking and talking and hunting through his life, but he’s been dead in every way that matters since he watched the alphas rip his parents’ throats out.

For a year now, after every kill, he goes to Derek, has since that first night in the woods when he had looked into Derek’s frenzied blue eyes, had felt the searing heat of his growl on his face, and had finally, _finally_ felt alive. Mirthless laughter had bubbled through him, part relief, part shock, all wild abandon. The numbing fog he had wandered through for years seemed to lighten and dissipate as Derek’s heavy, powerful body weighed him down, human features obscured by his monstrous face.

Something about his reaction had stopped Derek from sinking those wickedly sharp fangs into his neck. Face close to Stiles’, he shifted to mostly human, fangs still bared and haunting blue eyes still glowing. Stiles had gasped when he saw just how beautiful Derek was, and it wasn’t until his eyes finally faded back to their regular gold-flecked jade, those damn eyebrows furrowed, that his heart really started to beat faster, that he finally started to feel something like fear as Derek’s human gaze seared into him.

He should have taken advantage of Derek’s surprise and killed him too, still isn’t quite sure why he didn’t. It was more than the way Derek’s rugged, forceful body pressed in to his, pushing him into the ground, his own body flaming with an attraction and a need to be subdued like he’d never felt before. He’s killed a few werewolves over the years and has never felt anything but satisfaction at their bloody deaths. This wolf had ignited something new in him, a dark and twisted hope he immediately became addicted to.

Their ensuing fight was mostly growled insults and glancing blows, quickly sparking into a into a furious, convulsive rutting against each other that ended with both of them half naked and covered in dirt and come. Shell-shocked, they had drifted away from each other in a daze, only to crash back together when Stiles tracked him down a week later after an exorcism.  

He can’t really explain, or maybe can but just doesn’t want to, even to himself, why the hunt drives him to Derek. Why the only thing that makes him grateful that whatever horrid beast he just destroyed didn’t get him first is the blistering heat of Derek’s too-warm skin, the obscenely erotic press of claws piercing his flesh, the clutch of Derek’s big hands when he comes, gripping him tight like they’re both dying.

It’s been three weeks since Stiles has found something to hunt, three weeks since the last time he saw Derek, the longest they’ve gone since they first met. He had never felt so scared and stupid when he made that flimsy excuse to leave his shirt at his place last time, a pitiful attempt to leave a piece of himself in Derek’s life, leave some trace of his presence that would last longer than his scent. It had taken all of his self-control to not smile in relief and excitement when Derek didn’t seem to care and had offered him one of his own shirts. Emboldened, working so goddamn hard to keep his heart steady, Stiles had moved forward, needing to touch him one more time, wishing he could stay, wanting so badly to kiss him when they weren’t trying to tear each other apart, just to see what it would be like. Instead he just left a chaste kiss on his neck, a tender echo of the bite that was still stinging on his own neck, fighting the urge to collapse into the werewolf.

His neediness had embarrassed him, still embarrasses him now; it hasn’t stopped him from sleeping in Derek’s Henley every night since, though. 

When he finally pulls the Jeep to a stop and looks up to see where he’s driven himself, he’s not that surprised to see that he’s in the dark alley behind Derek’s building. He sits there for a couple of minutes, body tense, nearly desperate for the feel of Derek’s beard against his skin and the timbre of his voice, surprisingly soft even when he’s snarling filthy commands at him.

They’ve never spoken about what they are to each other, never really talked all that much about anything. He has no idea how to be around Derek when he’s not pulsing with the adrenaline of a hunt, seething with anger and hate. He has no idea how Derek might react to him when he doesn’t want to be so thoroughly taken apart and reduced to ashes.

Stiles stays there parked in the alley for a few more minutes, imagining all of the possible scenarios if he goes upstairs.

He starts driving again.

~*~

He ends up at a bar a few blocks from Derek’s place, tucked into a corner booth in the back, drinking too much whiskey too fast as he watches the bar get more and more crowded. The music is getting louder too, the Friday night crowd rowdy and entirely too happy for his liking. 

There’s a guy at the bar that keeps looking his way, trying to make eye contact and smiling flirtatiously. He’s kinda cute, but not really his type, too small, not nearly surly enough. Stiles sips at his whiskey and looks away, not wanting to encourage the guy until he’s drunk enough to not care that he’s not Derek.

That’s when he sees the wolf himself, breath catching and heart screaming when he spots him sitting across the room in a booth drinking a beer. He realizes that it’s the most human thing he’s ever seen him do, and for some reason that _hurts_. But not as much as realizing that Derek’s not alone. He’s sitting next to – really close to, in fact – a stunning redhead with _very_ impressive cleavage, and across from her, a handsome guy with spiky blonde hair.

Stiles’ mouth goes dry, stomach turning sour with something that feels suspiciously like jealousy. He throws back the rest of his whiskey in a gulp, eyes burning because it’s cheap, shit booze. Maybe it’s more surprise than jealousy. After all, he had no idea that Derek was interested in women, or that he even has friends. It’s not like they’ve talked about any of those things, or much of anything at all, which is why it’s fucking pathetic and needy that Stiles is so upset by the sight of Derek with someone else.

Almost everything he knows about Derek’s life came from research into the Hale family and hunter word-of-mouth. He knows Kate Argent – a damn fine hunter but a total fucking psycho – killed his family a while back and that he disappeared for a long time afterwards, reappearing in Beacon Hills not long before Stiles himself did. He knows Derek played baseball and lacrosse in high school and that when he did, at least judging by the newspaper articles he found online, he smiled occasionally, something Stiles has never seen. Stiles knows that Derek’s mother had been a powerful alpha, and that when he killed his uncle, the Hale alpha power died with him, not transferring to Derek like it should have. He doesn’t know if Derek knows why, or how he feels about it. Doesn’t know why Derek came back to Beacon Hills, or why he lives in that practically empty, rundown loft, or what he does all day, or his favorite food or color or how he likes his coffee or if he’s anything more than the broken shell of a man who has nothing left to live for.

He knows other things though, more important things. The whining growl that immediately precedes his orgasm, the way his green eyes go nearly black with lust when he leans in close to scent at his neck, how his touch, so capable of breaking Stiles to pieces, is somehow both tender and rough.

The woman flips a curtain of shiny hair over her shoulder and lets her delicate hand fall to Derek’s forearm, resting there as she leans in close to whisper into his ear, smile curling at her plump, red lips. Stiles looks away, not wanting to see Derek smile in response to whatever this goddess is telling him.

Yeah, it’s definitely jealousy, which, fuck that. It's pitiful. He doesn’t have any right to be jealous over someone he doesn’t even have. Swallowing hard, he digs some crumpled bills from his pocket and throws them on the table as he slides out of the booth, heading towards the back exit he scoped out when he first came in, head tucked down, hoping Derek hasn’t seen him.

The door leads into an alley and on instinct he reaches to touch the pistol holstered to his side under his flannel shirt, just make sure it’s there, always ready for whatever’s going to jump out of the dark. He’s drunker than he thought, the walls of the alley tipping slightly as he walks away from the bar back to where he parked the Jeep out front. He focuses on taking deep breaths of the cold winter air, trying to sober up, settle his heartbeat, get that stupid fucking werewolf out of his goddamned head.

The stupid fucking werewolf who’s leaning against the driver’s side door of Stiles’ Jeep, hands tucked into the pockets of a well-worn leather jacket, which fuck, is a look he is pulling off. Derek looks almost casual, relaxed, practically lounging there against the door. Stiles didn’t think Derek knew how to lounge. 

His posture may be relaxed, but his expression is still that harsh glare that Stiles knows well, eyebrows slightly furrowed above those gold-green eyes, mouth tight. Stiles badly wants to kiss him, has to bite his lip and look away so he doesn’t. Derek’s rejection is one of the few risks he doesn’t want to take these days.

“You’re drunk,” Derek says. Stiles thinks there might be a hint of concern in his voice, but he knows it’s wishful thinking. Derek doesn’t care about him, doesn’t have anything like affection for him. How could he?

There’s a small part of him though, the part that brought him back to Beacon Hills, that can’t help but hold on to the small hope that maybe he’s more to Derek than a self-destructive hunter who likes to tease death by fucking a werewolf. After all, it’s not like he would even know what concern from Derek would even sound like, so there’s a chance, right?

Stiles steps closer to him. He’s too drunk to control his heart beat, and Derek smells _good_ , like fresh earth and a subtle animal musk that shouldn’t turn him on, but fuck, it does. “Why the fuck to do you care,” he answers, words biting. He learned long ago – from Dean, mostly – how easy it is to hide what he’s really thinking and feeling simply by being an asshole. It’s served him well with Derek so far.

Derek’s expression doesn’t change, eyes still guarded and harsh, mouth still tight. He doesn’t respond to Stiles’ question either, perfectly content it seems, to just stand there continuing to be an immovable fucking object for Stiles to throw himself against.

And Stiles is nothing if not an unstoppable force, so he just steps closer to him, putting himself between Derek and the pickup parked next to the Jeep, leaning against the truck and crossing his arms, leveling the harshest glare he can muster at him. Derek’s nostrils flare a bit, the only sign he’s not actually a statue of masculine, lupine perfection. 

“Where’s your girlfriend,” Stiles asks, wincing slightly at how bitter he sounds, surely giving himself away.

That seems to jar Derek from his stoicism, eyebrows darting up briefly. “Girlfriend?” He sounds genuinely confused, at least to Stiles’ drunk, hopeful ears. 

“The redhead with the rack.” He’s not even trying to hide his irritation now, pissed as he is that Derek’s making him explain, is making him feel this way at all.

Derek rolls his eyes, becoming more human and less wolf-like by the second. “Lydia is an old friend from high school, in town for a week. With her fiancé, Jackson, who you also saw.” There’s a lightness to his tone that Stiles’ hasn’t heard before, nothing as strong as bemusement but maybe close to it.

Stiles watches him for a long beat before responding, taking in the sharp lines of his bearded jaw and the strong tendons of his neck that lead down to the soft, dark chest hair peeking out of his dark green v-neck. He’s captivating, so blindingly gorgeous it hurts to look at him. “Well, congratu-fuckin-lations to Lydia and Jackson,” he finally says, remembering how that chest hair feels against his tongue.

He thinks he sees something like a smile flash across Derek’s face, so he leans closer, heart racing even faster. His crossed arms brush against the soft leather of Derek’s jacket and he clenches his fists tighter, itching to grab at it and pull him in. “Did you want something,” he asks, voice whiskey-dark, watching how Derek’s eyes fall to his mouth as he speaks.

“Yeah,” Derek whispers throatily, barely loud enough for him to hear. “Yeah, Stiles, I want something.”

And then Derek’s strong hands are on him, clutching him hard above the elbows and spinning him until they’ve switched places, Derek pressing him against the door of his Jeep. Leaning his hips into him, knee spreading his thighs to slot his own leg between them, Derek locks him there, keeps him still. He releases his arms, one hand tracing roughly up Stiles’ stomach and chest, stopping to wrap loosely around his neck, and fuck, it sends a shuddering moan through him and he tilts his head, submitting. Derek definitely smiles now, small and knowing, his other hand rucking up the hem of Stiles’ t-shirt. A big thumb digs into his hip, sending a jolt of sizzling heat straight to his cock. Stiles lets his head fall back against the window, not giving a damn that they’re in a parking lot in full view of the road and the bar, wanton enough for Derek that he’ll let him do whatever he wants, wherever and whenever like the cockslut Derek likes to accuse him of being when he’s fucking him senseless.

But Derek’s hand dips down into the pocket of his jeans instead of under the waistband, fingers grabbing at his thigh through the fabric. Stiles is confused but doesn’t care, just happy in his whiskey-soaked haze that Derek is touching him at all. Derek yanks his hand out of the pocket quickly, bringing it up in front of his face, Stiles’ keys hanging off his index finger. “I want to drive your drunk ass home,” he says, stepping away and pulling Stiles by the shirt, shoving him towards the passenger side of his Jeep.

**~*~**

“She grinds a bit in second,” Stiles says, petulant and surly, as Derek pulls out of the parking lot. He slouches back in the passenger seat as Derek shifts into second gear smoothly, driving his touchy Jeep easily and with confidence.

Stiles rents a furnished, converted barn at the edge of a large dairy pasture just outside the city limits. It’s spacious and secluded, perfect for his arsenal of weapons and all those times he comes home with shredded clothes covered in blood and ectoplasm and werewolf come.

Derek drives there without needing directions. Stiles doesn’t ask him how he knows.

**~*~**

The drive is quiet, tense, Stiles not speaking until Derek pulls to a stop next to the barn, Jeep shuddering still and casting them in darkness when Derek turns off the ignition. Any excuse he can think of to get Derek inside seems even flimsier than leaving his shirt at his place, so he swallows hard, mouth going dry, deciding to just go for it, knowing he'll hate himself even more if he doesn't try.

“Do you, uh, want to come in? I have some great weed. Can werewolves get high?” He sounds ridiculous, way too nervous, but Derek doesn't laugh at him or sneer like he expects. He just watches him, studying his face for a long time, nostrils flaring slightly.

“Yeah,” he answers quietly, to which question, Stiles isn’t sure, but he’s not going to press his luck and ask.

“Cool,” Stiles says, feeling anything but as they both get out of the Jeep and walk towards his door. He’s given up trying to control his heartbeat or his growing lust, instead just stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the fact that Derek is fully aware of both. He unlocks the door and leads him in, the back of his neck bristling with the heat of Derek’s eyes on him.

Stiles looks hurriedly around the large, cluttered room, almost every horizontal surface of the generic furniture covered in books and weapons. In the far corner opposite the door is a small kitchen, counter littered with empty beer bottles, the sink full of dirty dishes. He pictures Derek’s sparse and neat loft, feeling embarrassed and then irritated at himself for it. Why the fuck should he care if Derek knows he’s a slob?

“Have a seat,” he says, eyes darting to Derek’s as he walks to the kitchen, peeling off his flannel and tossing it on the stairs that lead up to the former hayloft that serves as his bedroom. He removes his holster too, pointedly looking away from Derek as he does.

“So, werewolves can get high?” He asks, grabbing his favorite bong from the counter and filling it with fresh water. He joins Derek on the couch, perching on the edge to load a bowl from the mason jar of large purple buds he picked up when he was in Oregon. He’s starting to sober up a bit, making his anxiety even worse, trying not to freak out because Derek is  _here_ , in his home, sitting on his couch like someone he knows, like a friend. His hands shake as he presses a bud in the bowl, settling a bit though when Derek answers him.

“Yeah. Something about the way THC interacts with the brain doesn’t activate our healing powers the way alcohol does.” He takes off his jacket and throws it over the back of the couch, settling back into the cushions, eyes watching Stiles’ every move.

Derek’s gaze is always unnerving, impenetrably harsh as it usually is. Usually, Stiles thinks, because the look on his face is wholly different now. It’s still breathtakingly intense, but his eyes are wide and gentle, his mouth soft and partly open, practically begging to be kissed. Stiles clears his throat and tears his eyes from his face only to be drawn right back in by the way the short sleeve of Derek’s shirt is straining _so tight_ against the absurdly graceful curve of his bicep. When he risks looking back up to his face, his cock fucking jumps at the small smile he sees, hardening even more when Derek shifts his hips, sliding down the back of the couch a bit, looking even more relaxed and inviting.

He means to give Derek the first hit but he’s too keyed up by the sight of him, so familiar yet so new. He takes powerful pull, exhaling slowly away from Derek before turning towards him, holding out the glass and lighter.

“I don’t really smoke that often,” he says quietly.

Stiles takes a deep breath and swallows, not missing the way Derek’s eyes follow his Adam’s apple as he does. He inches closer to him, just until his knee brushes his thigh. “Do you, um, do you want me to…?” He lets his voice drift off, letting his pounding heart do the rest.

“Sure,” Derek answers, eyes moving up to lock on his. Stiles’ first hit was a powerful one, and his mind and body are already starting to loosen and soften, calming him down a bit. He's still dazed that this is happening though, that Derek is proving to be someone more than he thought, more than he had let himself hope for, judging by the look in his eyes. 

Stiles moves quickly, before he can talk himself out of it. He swings a leg over Derek’s hips, careful not to drop the bong or lighter as he settles into his lap. There’s too much space and fabric between them for Stiles to feel if Derek is as hard as he is, but the familiar hungry look in his eyes tells him all he needs to know.

Before he can do anything else, Derek darts forward, startling him, making him gasp as he buries his face in Stiles’ neck, nose running up from shoulder to ear as he scents him, a low, contented growl at the back of his throat. It thrills him, Derek’s wolf still eager for him when the man himself seems so gentle, so patient.

Derek leans back, giving Stiles room to take a hit, filling his lungs as much as he can before turning to put the bong and lighter on the coffee table, holding his breath. He rests his hands on Derek’s broad chest as he falls toward him, until their lips are barely touching. He blows a slow, smooth line of sweet smoke into Derek’s waiting mouth, blood singing at the touch of Derek’s lips on his.

Derek exhales through his nose expertly before his tongue darts out of those lips, sweeping across Stiles’ painfully slow, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of him. When he finally presses his mouth against his, Stiles moans in aching relief, tongue darting into Derek’s mouth to lick shamelessly, greedily at him.

The first time Derek had kissed him – the seventh time they had fucked, Stiles remembers with startling clarity – had been a brutal revelation. Derek had pulled Stiles up from his bruised knees moments after coming in thick streaks across his face, big hand twisted hard into his hair. He had fucked into his mouth with his tongue, spreading the taste of his come deep into Stiles’ throat, a punishing kiss that reverberated through him like he had been punched.

This kiss is also a discovery, so incredibly different yet just as world-altering. Derek’s mouth is soft and his lips push with gentle purpose against his, tongue cautious, the tip slowly teasing the barbell in Stiles’ tongue, a slow-burning jolt coursing straight to his dick.

Derek’s hands are all over him, hitching up his shirt to press firmly against his bare back. Stiles gasps into the kiss at the soothing heat of Derek’s hands on his cool skin, hips thrusting in response. He finally breaks the kiss, panting, rubbing his face against Derek’s soft, thick beard, hands twisted into his shirt. “Bed,” he huffs, not even caring any more how obvious he is.

Derek growls an assent and wraps his arms around his waist and stands in one easy, fluid motion, lifting Stiles like he’s weightless, moving quickly towards the stairs. “Fuck, Derek,” Stiles whines against his cheek, pitiful and desperate.

He grips him tighter with one arm, the other running up his chest and neck to cup his jaw in the palm of his big, wolfy hand, forehead pressing against his. “I got you, pup,” he whispers, like he knows exactly what the endearment does to him.

**~*~**

Stiles loses all sense of time and space for a while, lost inside his body in the best way. His mind sharpens brightly when he lands with soft thud on the unmade sheets of his bed, eyes going wide to realize that he and Derek are both naked now, the faint echo of claw-ripped fabric somewhere in his memory. Derek is crawling up his body, and Stiles can’t help but think of a stalking wolf as he watches his eyes narrow in rising lust. 

Derek leans down to suck gently on his bony hip, blunt human teeth scraping softly along his skin, lips and tongue dragging up his side until his mouth settles around his right nipple, tongue flicking over it as he sucks. Stiles twitches and gasps, rutting his hips against him and clutching at the sheets.

Much to his disappointment, Derek pulls away then, sitting up on his knees between Stiles’ spread thighs, eyes laser-focused on where his hand is twisted in the fabric. Stiles follows his gaze and sees that he’s not just clutching on to his dark sheets for dear life, but on to Derek’s Henley too, the one that he’s slept in so much it doesn’t even smell like Derek anymore.

Derek reaches for his shirt, pulling Stiles’ hand to his face along with it as presses it to his face, learning just how much Stiles has been wearing it, probably even smelling all of the times he’s gotten himself off while wearing it, imagining Derek inside of him. He feels his cheeks grow hot, embarrassment rising with each passing second Derek keeps his eyes closed, breathing in the scent of his dirty shirt.

Derek’s eyes flash open suddenly, glowing blue. He tosses the shirt aside and is on top of Stiles again in an instant, this kiss more urgent and needful, his big, uncut cock leaking against Stiles’ thigh. Relief floods through Stiles, rutting up against Derek's rock-hard abs, hands digging into his back to pull him closer. Whatever conclusions Derek made about Stiles wearing his shirt so much, he seems more than pleased with them.

He moves back down his body, nipping and licking at him all the way until he gets to his cock, sweeping his eyes up to look at Stiles’ face from under his lashes as he licks at the head. Derek has blown him before, always after he’s fucked him though, fingers shoving his come back into Stiles’ ass as he devoured him. He’s never teased him like this, never forced Stiles to look into his eyes as he swallows him down slowly, tenderly even.

Stiles’ hands find Derek’s hair, so thick and soft, tangling his long fingers against his head as he slowly sucks him, spit starting fall from the corners of his stretched mouth, sliding down his shaft. Derek’s hands are planted firmly on his hips, big thumbs under the bone, fingers wrapped around and pressing into his lower back. When Stiles tries to buck up a little bit, just to see how Derek reacts, he’s rewarded with the warning press of claws against his skin and a growl that vibrates around his cock, making him groan.

Derek pulls off just as teasingly as he began, again forcing Stiles to meet his eyes. His stomach flips at what he sees there, expecting Derek to say something. The only times he and Derek have ever been good at talking to each other is when they’re fucking, Derek’s usual terseness disappearing, brutal words tumbling from his mouth, his rapacious anger unmaking Stiles just as thoroughly as his severe, merciless thrusts. But Derek doesn’t seem to be too interested in talking this time, all of his overwhelming intensity pouring instead from his eyes and the reverent way he’s touching him.

“Turn over,” he does say, finally, voice soft but still commanding. It warms Stiles through and through and makes him want to obey. He does as he’s told, catching his breath loudly when Derek slides off the bed on to his knees and pulls him back as he goes, hands circling his calves, putting Stiles into the position he wants. Stiles is on all fours, knees resting near the edge of the low bed, ass in the air. His head drops between his arms, already feeling dangerously close to coming with the anticipation of whatever Derek has planned for him.

Derek bites into the tender flesh of his ass, mouth still wet with spit and Stiles’ precome, tongue licking, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands spread him open and he licks a long, wet line from his balls all the way up into the cleft of his twitching hole, tongue circling the tight muscle before gently pressing in. Derek’s never done this before, and Stiles is almost glad for it: he feels like he’s not going to survive how utterly fucking incredible it feels to have Derek’s gorgeous, bearded face buried in his ass, that wicked mouth puckered against his hole, the tongue whose words had destroyed him time and time again sliding into him, eager to taste. 

His whole body lights up with the heat radiating from Derek’s tongue, his breath coming faster and faster as Derek picks up the pace, adding a spit-slick finger, growling in approval when Stiles cries out and rocks his hips back to take more. “Derek,” he manages to pant, voice sounding far away. “Derek, fuck, I’m going to come if you don’t stop.”

Stiles’ pleas just spurs him on, and Derek tongues him harder and adds another finger, reaching up with his other hand to stroke Stiles’ aching cock, pulling his orgasm from him in a few quick tugs. Stiles cries out again as it rumbles through him in vivid pulses, body going rigid, Derek catching his come in the palm of his big hand.

He goes limp, collapsing against the bed on to his stomach and rolling onto his back, beard burn tingling his ass. Derek’s still on his knees on the floor, lust-blown eyes drinking Stiles in. He watches in wide-eyed wonder, body still buzzing, as Derek wipes his hand across his chest, spreading Stiles’ come into his skin, making his chest hair shine with it. Never breaking his lock on Stiles’ eyes, he lifts his hand to lick his fingers clean, other hand casually stroking his flushed cock. 

Stiles scrambles across the bed to the rickety old nightstand, crawling back to Derek as quickly as he can with the half-empty bottle of lube. He slicks his hand and lies back, letting Derek watch him open himself up more as he continues to suck his fingers while jacking himself, mouth parted and red from making Stiles come with his tongue in his ass.

“You want me to fuck you,” he asks, finally sounding a little more like the Derek he’s used to. He slides a spit-slick finger into him next to Stiles’ scissoring digits, helping him stretch his loosening, eager hole.

“Derek, please,” Stiles whines, hips rocking up, still eager to be filled up even though he’s already come. “I need you. I want you.”

Derek pulls his hand away and stands, leaning over to haul Stiles up by the waist again, lifting him on to his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed. The rush of being manhandled by Derek is a familiar one, and Stiles’ spent dick begins to stir again already as he settles across Derek’s broad lap, straddling him. Stiles is pretty sure they've never fucked face-to-face before, the thought making him kiss Derek desperately, licking the taste of himself from his lips. 

Stiles reaches back to spread himself open as Derek lines his leaking cock up, both of them breathing in hot puffs against each other’s skin as Stiles slowly sinks onto him, astonished yet again at just how good it feels to be stretched wide and filled up by Derek, body alight with burning pleasure.

Derek’s hands find his face, thumbs pressing under his eyes when he pulls him in for another slow, deep kiss before he starts bucking up into him, slowly but firmly, demanding. Stiles grips at Derek's chest, still sticky and wet from his come, and begins sliding up and down in rhythm with Derek’s thrusts, clenching him tight.

They move faster and faster, Derek losing that calm control more and more which each slapping bounce as Stiles rides him. Stiles’ dick is growing harder too, head rubbing against Derek’s ridged abs. “Stiles,” Derek snarls, teeth locking on to his neck the way he does when he’s close to losing it.

Stiles hooks one elbow around Derek’s neck, uses it to hold himself steady while he jacks himself off, letting Derek’s big hands around his hips squeeze him, lifting him up and down on his cock. He can’t believe how close he is to coming again, how completely Derek knows how to bring him to pieces. “Come on, Derek,” he pants into his hair. “Come for me, fill me up, come on.” His hand is working faster over his own dick, just slick enough with lube and precome, still sensitive but so hard, so ready to blow again as Derek fucks up into him relentlessly, driving them both towards the edge.

Derek’s bitten-off growl turns into a moan as Stiles shudders and comes, shaking groan filling the room as he splatters across Derek’s flexing abs, pleasure surging through him, bucking and moaning. He feels claws popping into his lower back and he smiles, watching with wonderment as Derek’s eyes, right there, so close to his, shimmer from green to incandescent blue, growl rumbling from his chest as he ruts up hard and stills, powerful bursts of come spilling into him, making Stiles’ eyes roll back in utter bliss.

They collapse in a heap on the bed, managing to get sorta on the pillows, limbs tangled, Derek sliding out of Stiles with a sad little whine, fingers immediately moving to plug him up, keeping his come inside of him.

Stiles lays his head against Derek’s chest, yet another new experience, holding his breath, worried, despite everything that he thinks just passed between them, that Derek won’t let him. But he does, wraps an arm around him even, pulls him closer. Encouraged, Stiles takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, steeling himself for the scariest part yet.

“Stay,” he murmurs into his chest, only breathing again when Derek sighs in relief. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [Tumblr](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
